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November 23, 2009

"a poem is a city" by Charles Bukowski

a poem is a city filled with streets and sewersfilled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,filled with banality and booze,filled with rain and thunder and periods ofdrought, a poem is a city at war,a poem is a city asking a clock why,a poem is a city burning,a poem is a city under gunsits barbershops filled with cynical drunks,a poem is a city where God rides nakedthrough the streets like Lady Godiva,where dogs bark at night, and chase awaythe flag; a poem is a city of poets,most of them quite similarand envious and bitter …a poem is this city now,50 miles from nowhere,9:09 in the morning,the taste of liquor and cigarettes,no police, no lovers, walking the streets,this poem, this city, closing its doors,barricaded, almost empty,mournful without tears, aging without pity,the hardrock mountains,the ocean like a lavender flame,a moon destitute of greatness,a small music from broken windows …

a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,a poem is the world …

and now I stick this under glassfor the mad editor’s scrutiny,and night is elsewhereand faint gray ladies stand in line,dog follows dog to estuary,the trumpets bring on gallowsas small men rant at thingsthey cannot do.